Essays

The house is in need of repair, but is—
for now, she says—still hers. After the storm,
she laid hands on what she could reclaim:

Somewhere in the post-Katrina wreckage and disarray of my grandmother’s house, there is a photograph of my brother Joe and me, our arms around each other’s shoulders. We are at a long-gone nightclub in Gulfport, the Terrace Lounge, standing...

On Saturday, when I come to see
my brother, they call him, over loudspeaker,
to the tower—a small guardroom

The water clock makes into a measure
a flow so continuous none can say

I wanted to say I have come home
to bear witness, to read the sign
emblazoned on the church marquee—

We’re at the Potts Mountain Shooting Range
on a hot day in March, blowing ammo,

Don’t make the mistake of calling her
angel or saint. The tremendous broad crowning
Troy’s war monument grips her sword

Here is my solitary city. This island of steel
and avenue. Towers with skeletons of organ

This week they are painting
the North Gulfport water tower.

On her wedding day, a bride should slip a good penny into her shoe
to ensure luck and wealth during the life of her marriage.